The funny thing about driving a car, is the not so funny road rage that inevitable is part of the deal. Almost intuitively, even the most caring, nurturing and patient of people, both men and women alike, can savagely metamorphosize into the Jason Statham character from Death Race. Blaring horns, swerving vehicles and narrow escapes are, for reasons unknown to mankind, the very epitome of us mutating into an adrenaline-pumped movie character.
But case in point, driving recklessly only pays homage to the bumper sticker ‘Drive like hell, and you might get there!” And besides the irony that recklessness could prove costly, the core ideology of getting behind the wheel is to commute. But whether we travel for work, are late for meetings, on the drive back home, or even the occasional leisurely drive (when one can afford to), it most often can turn into a reel-life meets real-life scene from the Fast and the Furious franchise
Don’t get me wrong, the movie is great and the drifting turbo-charged cars are quite phenomenal, but only when practiced in safe environments. Ninety minutes of testosterone-driven action cannot, and should not, be replicated off-screen. Especially on the drive back from the cinema, when we are most susceptible to ‘inspiration’. Driving a vehicle is but the means to only get from point A to point B, and should not be juxtaposed as a night out on the streets or to fuel your insatiable need for speed.
I’m not proud of fines, but rather the lack of them I proudly display today. Kids … battle scars are something we should be proud of, tattoos perhaps but displaying how much you’re ‘donating’ to the social welfare system this month, now that’s full-throttled stupidity.
And I am not stupid, anymore.